


Finest Hypocrisies

by Hardwood_Studios



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardwood_Studios/pseuds/Hardwood_Studios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey hurts Mike. Mike doesn't come back. And so Harvey will travel to the far corners of the universe, do anything and everything it takes to prove he cares. Because Mike Ross belongs to Harvey Specter, and that's just how it is. [Harvey/Mike]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: So this is probably, most likely, going to be a chapter story. Or maybe an incredibly long Oneshot, depending on how much effort I put into this first piece. It's angsty and dramatic, and there's a whole lot of whumpage in store for Mike. That boy is gonna get whumped! Is whumped a word? It is now, bitch. So Harvey's a careless asshole who makes a whole lot of mistakes, and ends up driving Mike away. He does anything and everything to get Mike back, and suffers massive guilt attacks every few seconds. Because Harvey can really piss me off. And he needs to suffer a little bit, goddamnit. 
> 
> Erm...Lemon? Maybe? Possibly? Depends on how I feel when I get to that point, which will probably be a week from now. I'm slow like that, man. So painfully slow. Oh, and I just now watched the new episode. I know Katrina Bennett does actually work pretty hard, mainly just to one-up Mike, but she's going to be horribly lazy for the sake of this story

It was roughly thirty, sleepless hours into the work day that Mike began to feel it. The pressure. His eyes are blurring and stumbling over the words, ink blots taking shape on the page. He can feel the beginnings of a tremble in his fingers. He wants to - to...

He isn’t entirely sure what he wants. Thoughts are running together and buzzing like static in the back of his brain. He seeks out the nearest clock. It’s just after six, and Mike feels himself go slack with hopelessness. Only six? “Fuck.” He murmurs, barely audible in the stale quiet of the file room. Mike presses the heel of his palm into the burning pits that were his eye sockets. He’s on the verge of mental malfunction, but he can’t leave, not until these briefs are highlighted within an inch of their lives. 

Precarious towers of manila and freshly printed paper ensconce him on all sides, taunting him with their sheer mass. Multinational Double Merger for Harvey, Insurance Fraud for Louis, Environmental Protection dispute for Katrina. He wants to laugh hysterically when his pen runs out of ink. “‘S too much.” His eyelids are falling fast and heavy, but he can’t leave. He isn’t finished.

Harvey would be disappointed again. 

So Mike powers through. He works himself into near catatonia, barely catching the loopholes and deal breakers. He manages to drag himself from the crisp cocoon of paper and plastic by half past nine, and straggles into the elevator. He would gift Harvey with the fruits of his labour, be brushed aside like a particularly infinitesimal insect, and then sleep. He can feel the starchy linen of his pillowcase pressing into his cheek, the dent of his mattress molding to the familiar contours of his body. 

He nearly moans.

The ping of the elevator rouses him from his strangely erotic fantasy. Silvery doors hiss open, and lo and behold, Harvey Specter. Posing dramatically, like Superman standing on top of the world [maybe that’s just the sleep deprivation]. Harvey raises a dry brow. “You look like hell.” Isn’t that such a Harvey Specter thing to say. Mike wants to feel offended, but he can’t summon the energy. 

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me all day.” He croons. 

Harvey steps in next to him, and smirks that smirk. “Is that for me?” He gestures to the manila file in his arms, and Mike brightens. 

“You’re damn right it is. Took me awhile, but I found the loophole that’ll get you into the Stinson - Stella merger.” Harvey takes the file with a barely look of satisfaction. 

“Congratulations, kid. It seems you’re not totally useless.” 

Mike pauses.

Ouch. Just, ouch. Harvey has said similar things to him, but this time it sticks, and it hurts. His chest tightens, his lungs shiver. Countless hours of work [no food, no sleep, no coffee, for God’s sake!] delivered free of error and on time, despite the unreasonable deadline. He doesn't expect much, not from Harvey. A ‘good job, Mike' at most, an appreciative nod at the very least. 

Instead, he’s deemed 'not totally useless'.

“I’ll review these later tonight. I have an important meeting to attend first, so don’t bother me.” By meeting, Mike is certain he means the routine bag and tag of some nameless supermodel. He doesn't say anything, because he knows Harvey won't care. He cares, a little more than he should. They stand in [sort of] awkward silence, with Mike licking his emotional wounds and Harvey oblivious to the damage he’s dealt, until they reach the lobby. 

Mike hurries from the building, tossing a cracked ‘later, Boss’ over his shoulder. He doesn't look back, doesn't watch as Harvey slides into the back of his car with grace and poise and everything that Mike Ross isn’t. He unlocks his bike, and slings the chain around his neck. He lacks the strength to pedal, and settles for walking.

The street is dark [silent, lifeless], and Mike kind of thinks he just stepped onto the set of a Wes Craven film. Shadows congregate in the corners and crevices of every alleyway, waiting to lash out as he shuffles past. His previous tiredness is all but gone, stark anxiety left in its place. “It’s only a few blocks, Mike. You're a grown man.” He chastises himself, his voice sounding frail to his own ears.

He hastens his pace, peeking over his shoulder every few seconds. It's all so embarrassingly cliche, and Mike should’ve seen it coming. He glances back for the umpteenth time, hearing phantom footfalls just behind him, then he collides with something hard and immovable [a person]. Mike breathes in too sharply as large hands clamp around his upper arms. He vaguely hears himself coughing. He’s whipped around to face his impromptu captor. 

It’s an unkempt bear of a man, as tall as Goliath and wider than his goddamn refrigerator. Mike flinches back, cataloging every bedraggled detail out of desperate instinct. Eyes like a shark, glassy and hungry black. Square and shoddy jaw, matted thicket of flaxen curls [muscle like stone and cheap, tattered, polyester jacket]. He reeks of whiskey and ferality, his upper lip curled back over yellowing teeth. Mike tries calling out, but nothing respectable sounds. He’s so fucked. 

“What do you want?” His throat’s closing around his words. 

“Well, ‘ello.” An englishman, his accent thick and unmistakable. 

Mike paled, jerking from the wash of rancid breath. “Please, I - Look, my wallet is in my pocket. Just, leave me alone.” He can’t bring himself to say more. Hot, heavy hands were slipping over him, cupping the back of his neck and delving down his side. 

“Relax, poppet.” His burglar laughs. “All ’m goin’ta take is your coin, I’ll leave the rest’a ya for my dreams.” 

Mike feels fingers pressing into his coat pocket, rummaging through its sparse contents. His wallet is promptly discovered and seized. “Maybe we’ll see ‘chother again.” His burglar whispers against the side of his mouth. Mike is suddenly pushed aside, as his burglar beats a hasty retreat into the alley. He stumbles over the curb [his ankle twisting and snapping with a subdued pop] and smacks against the road. 

His vision goes white, then black, then fizzles back into shape and color. He’s eerily calm, his body is strangely numb. He takes a moment to remember, and swallows down the swell tears. The pain hits him all at once, like fucking lightning bolts and tidal waves. His stomach rolls, and a tremor manifests under his skin. With a shaky inhale, he risks a look at his ankle. His foot is corkscrewed like a macabre mattress spring, and Mike can see the distinct rise of bone pressing against skin. “Shit!” 

A keening breath, and he’s panicking. “Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Rapid gasping, wide eyed horror. Mike needs to be calm, and he’s trying. He closes his eyes, and takes in slow gulps of nighttime air. He seriously wants to vomit, sob, and get lost in the panic attack hovering at the edges of his brain. He doesn’t let himself, because he’s a grown goddamn man. He breathes through the it all, and pulls together a ration of higher thought. He walks himself through this. 

It’s dark, he’s alone, he has no wallet, and his ankle is very obviously broken [hindering his ability to move or defend himself]. Mike grits his teeth, and clings to his last vestiges of composure. He needs to prioritize. Okay, get out of the street, medical attention, put all debit and credit cards on hold, buy a fucking car. 

He take a couple hundred deep breaths, and steels himself. With shaking arms, he crawls onto the sidewalk in slow, tiny movements. His ankle scrapes across the concrete, and he screams like shattering glass. Tears drench his cheeks, and he babbles hysterical nonsense into the ground. Black spots are decorating his vision, he thinks he might be passing out. “Calm down, fuck, you need to calm down.” He blubbers, panting and spasming. It takes him ten horrible minutes to calm down. 

A solution. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks, before finally remembering the phone that sits in his pocket. “Really?” He hisses at his own stupidity, and carefully retrieves it. His ankle cries out like a needy babe, and he does his best to shush it. Mike’s first instinct is to call Harvey, so he does. The dial tone is like needles to his ears, and he’s starting to taste pennies behind his teeth. He’s panicking again [pleasedon’tletmedie], and then -

“I thought I told you not to bother me.” 

Harvey doesn’t sound pleased, but his voice is like music. The relief is potent and immediate, and he basks in it for a second. Mike presses the phone to his ear and lets loose a shuttering exhale [thank God, thank God, thank God for Harvey fucking Specter]. 

“Harvey, I - ”

“Let me just stop you right there.” Mike blinks at his frosty tone. 

“Whatever you’re about to say, it isn’t my concern. Handle it on your own.” Click. Mike was alone again. 

He stares into nothingness for a long moment. He tries to think, but he doesn’t know what to think about. His hand slumps to the ground, and his fingers loosen around the phone. Maybe Harvey doesn’t care. Maybe all those vehement denials and deflections were truths. The realization feels like an open-palmed-slap to the face. He closes his eyes, and tries to slow the hard thumping of his heart.

His emotions are seeping out of him, pooling in the grimey cracks of the sidewalk. It hurts, almost as much as his [probably shattered] ankle. He didn’t get a chance to speak, or explain. He needed help, and Harvey just hung up. Apparently Mike isn’t his concern, he isn’t important enough. The thought was too bitter and too painful. He opens watery eyes, and just breathes. In, out. In, out.

Who can he call? He has no parents, no living relatives, no friends. Rachel? No, she’s still angry [he can’t remember why]. There’s no one, is there? Mike coughs out a broken sob. God, his life sucks. “I could always call a cab.” His laugh is miserable in every sense. Beggars can’t be choosers. He dials the number of a reliable taxi service.

“1-800-TaxiCab, please state the city or metro area you need service.”

“New York City, 35th and Main.” He wheezes. 

“Our nearest car is en route, and will arrive shortly.” The reply is short and impersonal, but it fills Mike with relief. He murmurs his gratitude and ends the call. Now, he can only wait. He sits up [slowly and gingerly], and perches himself on the curb. He stretches his leg out, and nearly bites his tongue in half at the hot spikes of fresh hurt. It takes fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds for headlights to flash through the twilight veil, and it’s the longest fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds of his considerably short life. He alternates between deep breathing exercises, counting bricks, and fighting back tears. 

The cabbie pulls alongside the curb, and rolls down his window. His skin is dark, and his face friendly. “Are you going to get in, my friend?” Mike can hear subtle threads of an accent [ethiopian, maybe]. He grimaces, and gestures to the gruesome twist of his ankle. “I would, but I kind of...can’t walk.”

The cabbie jumps back with a loud shout. “Holy - ! Jesus, man!” He scrambles out of the car, and takes a knee beside him. His hands hover as if to touch, but there’s hesitancy in the fine shake of his fingers. Mike tries to smile. “I know it isn’t part of the job, but would you mind...helping me in?” He asks, shame coloring his cheeks. The cabbie gives a jerky nod. His eyes are big and frantic. “Yes, yes, absolutely!” 

It takes them ten minutes and forty six seconds to get him strapped in. Ten miserable minutes. His foot can’t bear any weight, can’t even touch the ground, and he relies almost entirely on the cabbie’s impressive upper body strength. He lay stiff as a board in the back seat, and concentrates on keeping still. Mike can feel eyes flashing at him in the mirror, probing and concerned. “The hospital?” The cabbie asks. 

He huffs out a half-laugh-half-whimper, and the cabbie drops his shoulders in an awkward shrug. “Dumb question. But you can never be too sure. Americans are crazy, you know?” He explains, his accent thickening in his stress. Mike might have laughed under different circumstances. “I get it. We Americans aren’t the most stable bunch.” He pauses, and closes his eyes. “Any hospital, preferably the closest.”

Then they were driving, hurried but steady. Mike holds himself tense against the worn vinyl. “Thank you for this.” He says for lack of anything more conversational. He can almost feel the cabbie smile. 

“Anyone would have done it.” He sounds solemn, and Mike tries not to snort. “Haven’t lived in New York very long, huh?”.

“Ah, is it that obvious? I only recently move here.” A bashful chuckle, and the mood is quickly lifting.

“Where are you from? I’m guessing Ethiopia, maybe northern Kenya.” He asks in genuine curiosity. The cabbie shoots him a startled look. “Ethiopia. How did you...?” He’s a little in awe, and Mike preens under the inadvertent compliment. Sometimes it’s just good to show off. “Not obvious, but you have a pretty distinct accent.” 

“Impressive, my friend!” The cabbie rumbles a laugh. It carries over him like a balm, and Mike slackens into the seat. He’s grateful to this man, for being here when Mike needs someone, even if just doing his job. The ride passes in what feels like seconds, with the exchange of easy small talk. It’s comfortable, and he doesn’t have to think [thinking was a simple recipe for depression]. 

When they pull up to the ER, Mike’s at a loss. How exactly is he supposed to - ? Then Mr. Ethiopia [for lack of a more imaginative name] is leaping from the car, and helping Mike to stand. It was a-thousand-times-embarrassing, but necessary. He all but carries Mike to the nurse’s station, and Mike realizes just how much he owes this guy. His health, his safety, maybe his life. 

The nurse looks up at them and frowns. She looks down, and her face tightens at the unnatural twist of his ankle. “Nurse Hendee! I need a wheelchair. Now. ” She calls to a passing colleague, a tinge of urgency in her voice. Mike is so exhausted, as the adrenaline is leaving him. Mr. Ethiopia lowers him into the wheelchair like he’s precious and delicate. “Thanks. I owe you, man.” He mumbles, offering his fist for a well-deserved-bump. 

Dark knuckles clatter against his pale ones, and the cabbie is smiling like everything in his life is totally great. “I’ll be waiting outside.” 

Mike watches him leave. Someone is waiting for him, even if just a nameless cabbie, and it felt good. A big, bleeding part of him wished it were Harvey, standing outside with that 'I'm-incredibly-concerned-but-will-never-openly-show-it' expression Mike loved. That was about as far fetched a notion as one can think up. He let his head fall back, pain and weariness taking their inevitable toll.

He’s tottering on the peak of a blackout as they wheel him into a too white room. He’s stripped and spread out and pumped full of drugs, and it’s like a cloud taking shape against his back. He feels weightless. His mind is adrift through a calm sea of memories, some fond and some fragile. He can’t feel his body, so he thinks. He thinks about Trevor and Jenny, the flawed part of himself that he peeled away. He misses that flawed part. He thinks about his Grammy, her withered hands and wooden chess pieces. The way she used to pepper his face with kisses and laugh like she was a young thing. 

He thinks about the cabbie and his yellow cab [a friendly face in a heartless city]. He thinks about his shoebox apartment, with the carefully managed chaos and wonderfully pointless panda painting. He thinks about Pearson Hardman, Donna and Rachel and Louis. He kind of likes Louis. He thinks about long nights with shuttered lights and ink stains on fingertips. The whir and whistle of printing paper, keyboards clicking and clacking. He thinks about romance and revenge, the meaning of life. His life, specifically. 

He thinks about Harvey Specter. Three-piece-suits, and perfectly knotted ties. Thick hair gelled into utter style, goddamn beautiful moles. He thinks of a strong jaw, handsomely wrinkled brow. Dark eyes that fuck and pick you apart with simple flicks and glances. Broad shoulders, chiseled and cut up to intimidate. He thinks about big, capable hands. A mouth that frowns and smirks and kind-of-smiles. Cocky, charismatic, perfection. 

He especially thinks about the hurt he feels very deeply, the resentment and tight sadness. All the tears that burn behind his pupils, and all the things he wants to say. He thinks about telling Harvey the truth [how much he cares, loves]. How his heart strings are tied to those long fingers of his, to be tugged and manipulated at will. Then he laughs that thought away.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Mike wakes to bright, overhead lights. He winces, and claps a hand over his eyes. His mouth is filled with cotton, and his reality is a fluttering fog. There’s a tight firmness encasing his foot, and he recognizes it as a cast. Plastic, not plaster. He steadies himself, and takes a quick peek. His right leg is trussed up in complicated strapping and sheathed in a hard plastic boot. It’s ugly and unnatural, and Mike hates it. He sighs, and slouches into the mattress. “Fuck my life.” 

He recognizes the fine slide of a hospital gown over his skin, and searches out his clothing. They’re folded and stacked neatly on the tabletop, a small tin of his personal belongings sitting next to the small pile. As if sensing his stare, his phone begins to vibrate and shiver in the metal tin. It’s like raindrops thundering down a gutter, and his ears pinch at the sound. He snatches it up. 

Harvey dominates the screen in black lettering.

Mike quickly answers. “Harvey.” He starts, pleased for some unfathomable reason.

“I went through the files. Where the hell are the Carmical briefs?” He’s angry. 

Mike frowns, confused and a bit concerned. “Carmical briefs?” 

“Yes, Mike. The Carmical briefs.” Sarcasm. Mike flinches. “Katrina gave them to you this morning. You volunteered, remember?” He’s shouting now, and Mike feels his heart sink into the soles of his feet. 

“Volunteered? I - ” He doesn’t get the chance to explain himself. 

“Don’t bother with another goddamn excuse. I get that you want to prove yourself, but right now? You’ve proven yourself to be nothing but a fucking mistake. You can barely finish your own work, you have absolutely no business volunteering for more. Katrina should have known better than to let you handle it.” And those words are enough to destroy him, crush his soul into colorless dust, and bring a quiver to his lips. Excuse? Mistake? He blinks back the dampness. 

“But I - !” Strangled, he tries to get out a single sentence [I never volunteered, please listen!]. 

“Stop. I don’t want to hear it. The Carmical case will either make or break me, and you fucked up. I should fire you right fucking now.” 

Mike bites back a high, quiet sound. It isn’t his fault, it isn’t! If Harvey would just listen - !

“I want you in the office at four, Mike. You will fix this, and maybe I’ll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are.” The call ends with a crippling lack of noise. 

Mike breathes in hitches and gasps, his eyes misting over. He can feel his red organ folding in on itself, wailing for a reprieve. The tips of his ears are on fire, and his brain feels too full. He isn’t sure how to move his arms. The phone slips from his palm, slick and clammy, and hits the pillow with a quiet thump. Harvey thinks he was a disappointment. Harvey, the man he trusts, and respects, and lives to impress [loves].

Mike works hard, he knows he works hard. He does triple the work of the average associate, and he does that work with a mostly cheerful disposition. He likes to work hard, to accomplish his goals the right way. Even if he has to sacrifice a few hours of sleep and skip the occasional meal, that’s okay. He’s doing something worthwhile. Mike should be thrilled and fulfilled, but he isn’t. He’s exhausted, and lonely, and sad. He does excellent work at the expense of himself, and no one bothers to say ‘thank you’. He isn't like Harvey, he can't work a hundred hours a day knowing it'll eventually pay off, and be satisfied with that.

It gets harder as time stretches longer, and he has to wonder. Is it worth it? 

[maybe I’ll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are] He cries bitter tears into the crook of hot hands. 

It isn't worth it. 

x

Jessica is expecting three emails. One from Wiley Henson, one from Mecca Funds Incorporated, and one from the District Attorney's Office. No less than three. Her inbox counts four new messages, and she frowns at the unexpected turn of events. She opens her inbox with a somewhat pathetic sense of trepidation, and prepares for the worst. 

Her eyes flicker like needlepoint searchlights, and pause. “Mike Ross?” Her frown deepens. Why the hell...? She clicks on the bolded name, and waited patiently for the message to appear. Jessica is more curious than she cares to admit. Mike is an interesting kid, rebellious and witty. She’s grown a little bit fond of the classic movie quotes and near constant strokes of brilliance. He’s one in a million, invaluable despite the illegality of his presence in her firm. 

A short block of text loads onto her screen, and she scans through one dark line at a time. Her face hardens, and her mouth thins into an angry line.

[Dear Ms. Pearson,

This is my formal notification that I am resigning from Pearson Hardman as your Junior Associate. Wednesday, February 13th, was my last day of employment.  
I appreciate the opportunities I have been given here, and wish you much success in the future.

Sincerely,  
Michael Ross]


	2. Crutches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harvey learns the truth, subsequently flails in his guilt, and goes to confront Mike in his on-the-verge-of-collapse apartment building. The plot thickens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: ...Hey, guys. It's been a long time. A year? 
> 
> ...I have no excuse...
> 
> The new season is on, so I really have no excuse. This story had one hell of a reception, you guys seem to love it, so I can't not update. And I love it too! I got a lot of great reviews, but my thanks go out to Harvey and Mike [the guest reviewers]. I got Harvey's review first, and I...I felt like a chastised child. "Why have you not updated the story yet, Hardwood Studios?" My full pen-name! I was like, "Oh, shit." 
> 
> Fair warning to all, I've been watching the new season [obviously] and I'm very, very angry. This new season is going exactly like I thought it would, and it's infuriating! My views on the whole thing should be pretty clear from...this entire story. Mike works hard, Harvey can be a dick. A lot. Harvey has been a magnificent dick, this entire season! And then the whole thing with Louis and the cake...I almost cried for Louis. Damn near burst into tears. Mike is too forgiving. 
> 
> Well. Not in this story, he's not. Let's have fun with this, yeah? 
> 
> Song of Choice: She Spider, by Mew. Very angsty and introspective. Thanks to my new beta-reader, helping me through my multiple coffee breaks and backspacing. Thanks, girl.

9:00 a.m.

It was nine o'clock. Harvey ignores the incessant ticking of the wall clock. He rolls a pink highlighter between his fingers, uncaps it, recaps it, uncaps it. He glares and glares some more. He flips absently through a fat, unopened file. He sees a lot of words and pretends to read them. Frowning, he abandons the file. He picks up his phone, glares at it, puts it back down. He looks at the clock.

9:01 a.m. 

He stabs the end of his highlighter at the intercom. “Donna.”

“[No, Mike is not here. For the twelfth time.]” She says, a bit snippish. 

He glares at the intercom. 

“[Don’t glare, you’ll get wrinkles.]” 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He sounds petulant to his own ears. He makes a quiet, grumpy noise. He looks at the clock.

9:02 a.m. 

Snatching up his phone, he dials a very familiar number. Dial tone, dial tone, dial tone. Voicemail, the same voicemail he’s gotten countless times. “Goddamnit.” He snarls, his face twisting up. Harvey has called sixteen times, now seventeen, and Mike hasn’t answered. That means one of two things: Mike is ignoring him or Mike lost his phone. The latter seems most likely, but that doesn’t explain his tardiness. Mike is five hours and three minutes late, and he very specifically said - 

Harvey stops. He remembers what he said. [“I want you in the office at four, Mike. You will fix this, and maybe I’ll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are.”] He grimaces. He was a bit harsher than intended, but their relationship is founded on tough love. Mike knows that, and he should know better than to volunteer for shit he can’t handle. His associate is not so fragile as to let some harsh words keep him from coming to work. He looks at the clock.

9:04 a.m.

Five hours and four minutes late. His fingers tighten about his phone, and tiny cracks blossom on the screen. He wants to throw it, break something. Then he hears the clickity clackity of heels, and he knows that distinct clickity clack. Jessica Pearson, as tall and dusky as an Amazon wonder. She wears power like she wears her Dior, extraordinarily well. Her umber curls settle in her collarbones, and her lined eyes spit fire. She walks into his office like she has every right to the place [she does]. 

“Mike isn’t coming.” She says bluntly. Harvey frowns. “Excuse me?” 

“Mike is not coming.” She enunciates more clearly. Her face is stern, sterner than normal [he detects notes of disgust? disappointment?]. Harvey stands. His eyebrows shoot into his hair. She presents him with a single paper, still warm from the printer. He reads it. His expression remains that hard, neutral slate [though his insides are cramping up].

[I am resigning from Pearson Hardman as your Junior Associate]. He reads this line several times, not quite believing what it says. Mike doesn’t quit, he certainly doesn’t resign. Harvey swallows, and a bad taste fills his mouth. He wants to not care. If Mike is so goddamn delicate as to quit over a rightful chewing out, then good riddance. Pearson Hardman isn’t the place for dropouts or hurt feelings [but Mike doesn’t quit!]. Harvey doesn’t understand. 

“I don’t know what the hell you did, but you’re out an associate.” She says crisply. Harvey doesn’t say anything. 

“Find Katrina. You’re due in court.” Then she turns, scarlet skirt straining around the outsides of her thighs, and leaves. Harvey watches her go. His mind is miles away, operating at dangerous speeds. A hard, heavy ball sits in his gut. Mike quit. Mike quit. Goddamnit, he doesn’t care! Donna scuttles in. She looks incredulous and terrifying. “What did you do?” She half whispers, half shouts. He grits his teeth. “I didn’t do anything.”

She pins him with this doubtful stare. 

“I didn’t!” 

“Mike doesn’t quit, Harvey.”

“Oh, so it’s automatically my fault?” 

Her green eyes get small and mean. “Do I need to get mad? I’ll get mad.” 

He frowns tightly. “I reamed him out on the Carmical briefs, that’s it. He fucked up.” He finally admits. He sounds more defensive than he intends. Her brows knit, and her lips purse. “The Carmical briefs? Isn’t that a Katrina thing?” 

“Mike volunteered. He bit off more than he could chew, again.”

She gives him this look, like he'd just said something utterly insane. Her mouth makes a tiny, red “o” and her nose wrinkles like an old sweater. “Um, no. Mike was juggling your Double Merger, Insurance Fraud for Louis, and...some environmental dispute, I think. We had takeout in the file room like a couple of hermits. He didn’t say a thing about the Carmical briefs.” 

At this discovery, Harvey feels the beginnings of dread, a slow creep like rigor mortis. “That doesn’t mean shit, Donna.” It does. It really, really does. It means Mike was working three times his fair workload, Katrina lied through her pretty teeth, and Harvey was played the fool. It means he chewed Mike out [put him down like an ugly stray] for no fucking reason. He remembers the things he said [some of the cruelest things one can say], and he remembers Mike trying to interrupt him. He whitens. 

“What...exactly did you say to him?” Donna asks softly. He remembers every word. He straightens, tugs at his cuffs, and makes a grand show of nonchalance. Donna sees right through him, as she always does. 

“I’m due in court.” 

She lets him go. He wishes she didn’t. 

x

He was discharged at six, given his crutches, and sent on his way. The sun had barely risen. His ankle is home to some new screws and plates, the Doctor told him. The things he is no longer allowed to do include: heavy lifting, excess walking, excess movement, and getting his cast wet. Which is all just so awesome. Mike found a familiar cabbie [Samson, he later learns] sitting in a familiar cab. He hadn’t gone home, he’d waited like he said he would. Mike felt simultaneously thrilled and guilty to the point of sickness.

Then he went home. Of course, only then did he remember his bike [the very same one he’d left in the street]. Because goddamnit, could this day get more awesome? Feeling a little high and a lot miserable, he struggled into his apartment. He sent his formal, bullshit resignation to Jessica [it was scary and final]. He changed [which was far more exhausting and painful than he anticipated], ignored the constant vibration of his phone, cried some more, and slept for a scant hour and a half. Again, Samson waited. Now he sits in the back of his favorite cab, leg outstretched, as Samson shoots him disapproving glances via the rear-view mirror. 

“You should be home. You need rest and recovery.” Samson says huffily. He’s glaring, though Mike doesn’t notice. His nose is pressed to the crease of a newspaper. He scans the classifieds carefully. “No, Sam. I need a job.” 

“You can barely walk! You will not be hired like this!”

“Hey!” Mike snaps the paper down, and it rustles wildly in his fists. “Do you know what this says to my prospective employers?” He points to his big, plastic cast. “It says I’m ambitious, a go getter! I’ll work hell or high water, broken ankle or internal hemorrhaging.” 

“That is not healthy!” 

Mike sighs into the classifieds. “Probably not.” He shifts. “Shouldn’t you be...looking for other customers?” He changes the subject awkwardly [and not at all subtly]. 

Sam makes a sudden, offended noise in the back of his throat. “I do not mind.” Is all he says. Mike feels warm, but he feels guilty too. “I’m just one person, Sam.” 

“You’re hurt. I do not mind.” He repeats firmly. 

“You’re too nice, man.” Mike grins, big and toothy, despite himself. 

The city rushes by in blues and greens and big, heavy greys. Traffic lights, cracked sidewalks, old buildings and new buildings are only a few pieces that fit into the ever expanding puzzle that is their city/kingdom. There are silver beams, sunny plexiglass and long rows of bumbling, yellow taxis too. People amble back and forth by the hundreds [in bright colors and monochromatic schemes]. The sun sits very high and shines like she’ll never shine again. She warms the back seat, and the vinyl splits under her concentrated beams. Mike wants it to be just another afternoon, but it’s not, and he knows that. His grin is quick to slip. 

A short ways from 2nd Avenue, on E 9th, is a cafe. Mike squints. He almost overlooks the shady, nondescript storefront. It’s a very dim place with open windows and scarlet drapery. They call it Mudspot. With its darkly bronze etchings and steel framework, it feels urban and lived in. Mike likes it immediately. “Down here, Sam.” They turn and saddle up close to the sidewalk. Mike takes both crutches in hand, looking horribly glum. He isn’t thrilled about the crutches. Just as he opens the door and breathes in summer heat, his phone shudders. 

He knows who it is, but he looks anyway. [Harvey]. For the seventeenth time. With a pained face, he shoves his phone into its denim prison. The hurt is too fresh. He lets it ring. Sam gives him a [becoming rapidly familiar] look, which he ignores. After a brief battle with his crutches, he stands on the one leg. He steadies himself and wobbles awkwardly into the small chophouse. It smells like a thousand coffee beans, eggs, numerous breakfast meats, and tea leaves. 

The inside is all rusty red bricks and matching vases full of floppy, yellow tulips. It feels a lot like home [better than home]. The room vibrates with chatter, and patrons flit about like honey bees. “Hi, Welcome to Mudspot!” A cheerful employee calls to him. Her smile is annoyingly bright. He hobbles over and leans heavily against the countertop. She laughs breathily. “That must suck.” She looks pointedly at his crutches. 

He scowls. “You have no idea.” 

“What can I get you? Would you like to try our Green Apple & Cinnamon Cobbler? It’ll rock your world.” Her eyes [mint green] shine under the smoky bulbs in an undeniably flirtatious way. Mike burns a little pink. “Uh, no. I’m actually here to ask about a job?” 

“Oh!” Her face slackens. She gives him a once over and quirks a dubious brow. He shrugs sheepishly. “Hold on, I’ll get you an application.” She finally concedes. Mike watches her, imprints her to memory without meaning to. Her hair is too blonde and too straight [not enough gel]. Her face is pretty and soft and feminine, light touches of makeup [too soft, too feminine, too much makeup]. She doesn’t have enough moles. Mike frowns. She comes back and hands him a disconcertingly thick packet. He takes it with a strained smile. “Have fun.” She winks.

He can’t think of anything witty to say. He finds the dimmest, quietest table in a corner nook. He produces a pen from his back pocket [you never know when you’ll need a pen], and works through the packet one question at a time. His crutches lean precariously against the brick wall, and his booted leg is propped on the opposite chair. He feels sort of like a circus sideshow. 

Suddenly, someone is calling to him. “Mike Ross, isn’t it?” 

He turns and sees a vaguely familiar man. He’s tall, broad, and donning a suit by Alexander Price [with its thousands of individual stitches]. He’s also handsome in that outdoorsy way. His hair is carefully shaggy and fallow, his brows big [but not overbearing]. Sparse, short hairs matt his jaw and myrtle eyes shine like river stones. They’ve met before at a particularly pretentious fundraiser in Greenwich Village. Then the name comes to him like a holy epiphany, and he nearly swallows his tongue. Holy God, this is Noah Aimes [of Fitzgerald & Aimes]. Fitzgerald & Aimes is a big, connected, rival [not really rival, he doesn’t exactly work for the competition anymore] firm. 

“Mr. Aimes, I’m surprised you remember me.” He maintains a modicum of polite coolness, but his insides are a panicky mess. He extends a hand and is shocked half to death when the man actually shakes it. Noah chuckles. “You remembered me, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, but you’re - ” He makes a few, abstract gestures. “Important.” He finishes lamely. Noah laughs a full, rich laugh. Mike blushes hotly. 

“And you aren’t? The rising star of Pearson Hardman?” Mike notices his word choice. The ‘rising star of Pearson Hardman’, not ‘Harvey’s golden boy’ or anything of the like. He appreciates the unwitting change of phrase. 

“Not anymore.” He shrugs awkwardly, not sure he should be admitting this to a formerly rival Partner. Noah looks taken back. “I, uh...I quit.” He explains. Noah calms quickly. He nods to the almost finished packet. “Don’t tell me that’s an application.” He actually sounds offended. Mike colors pink. He would give anything to stop blushing in front of this [God] man.

“Ah, yeah.” He feels outclassed in every way with this admittance. “I happen to like this place!” He says jokingly, a little defensiveness creeping into his voice. Noah raises his hands in mock surrender. 

“I like it too, I’m a regular customer.” He glances around very deliberately. “Isn’t this a little beneath you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Why’d you quit?” He asks in lieu of answering. “Didn’t have anything to do with that leg, did it?” 

“I - No.” Not entirely, anyway [only mostly]. Mike is unnerved by his attentiveness and curiosity [because no one usually gives a shit about Mike Ross]. 

“How long do you have to wear it, the cast?” 

“Six weeks.” By now, Mike is rightfully suspicious. Noah seems to sense this, and puts on his most innocent front. “I’m just curious, Mike.” 

“Why?” He sounds harsher than he means, but Noah doesn’t notice [or care]. 

“You’re not a drone, you’re clever.” He begins. “I know all about you. I know you have an eidetic memory, a frighteningly high IQ. I know you work hard and win cases. You’re one of a kind, Mike Ross. I was actually jealous of Harvey. He had your loyalty, I could tell.” 

After such a speech, Mike should be well beyond disturbed. A small part of him is, but the rest of him is flattered stupid. He blinks and blinks again. His lips flap uselessly, as he doesn’t know what to say. “I...Thank you?” It comes out confused. Noah smiles. “Don’t thank me. Just say yes.” 

“To what?”

“I want to offer you a job, Mike.” 

He says it so casually that it catches Mike completely off guard. His brain stutters and stumbles, he doesn’t get it. Mike is just a nobody associate [er, former nobody associate], and he barely know this [rich, powerful, terrifying] man. He stares blankly, just processing. He eventually gets it, and the beginnings of panic crawl up his throat like weeds. “I’d have to say no, I’m sorry.” His voice shakes finely, and he swallows. Noah doesn’t look put off. 

“You’d rather work here?” 

Sweat beads at the back of his neck, and he shifts [squirms] in his seat. “I...wouldn’t feel comfortable working for the competition.” Which is true. A big piece of Mike is still loyal to Harvey and always will be. Noah makes a considering noise. “We’re not competition anymore, Mike.”

“I still - ” 

“If you’re concerned about your utter lack of a formal education or diploma, don’t be. Harvey didn’t seem to mind, neither do I.” Again, he is the epitome of casual. Mike chokes on nothing. His heart drops and jumps and stops, he might be having a small anxiety attack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He immediately denies. 

“I think you do.”

They engage in a short [but intense] staring contest, in which Mike cracks like a boiled egg. “Why didn’t you...? I - I don’t understand. You could’ve - !” 

“I could’ve done many things. I could’ve had you arrested, had Harvey arrested. I could’ve brought Pearson Hardman to her knees.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. It’s a very big deal! It’s a huge deal! Mike is struggling with this entire conversation. He’s been rendered speechless at every turn. “But you didn’t.” He says slowly. 

“I didn’t.” Noah agrees.

“Why?” There’s the big question. By this point, Mike is extremely curious. Noah looks him evenly in the eye. 

“If I had, well, I wouldn’t have the chance to hire you myself.” 

Mike stares in utter befuddlement. Noah doesn’t give him the time to collect himself. He flips a business card onto the table [it lands squarely on his application] and turns to leave. “Think about it.” He calls over his shoulder. He’s left gaping and mentally flailing. He looks down at the business card. Gods, that man is cool, Mike can’t help but think.

“What the hell?” 

x

Harvey stalks from the courtroom. Katrina is hot on his heels. They’d dominated, crushed the opposition and their every argument with unnecessary ruthlessness [or Harvey did, anyway]. As it turns out, Katrina had finished the Carmical briefs. She practically gift wrapped them, and said something like, “I just knew Mike wouldn’t get these done on time.” Harvey wasn’t one to hit a woman, his father raised him a little better than that, but the urge was strong. 

He restrained himself, but just. In their brief time together, his restraint wore incredibly thin. He tightens his jaw against the building tirade and walks faster. He has to keep his head at least until they leave the courthouse. His strides are long and purposeful. Katrina can’t keep up, and she ends up jogging after him. She isn’t blind to the rigid straightness of his spine or the hard grinding of his teeth. She doesn’t say anything, partly out of respect, but mostly out of fear.

They reach the car in record time and slide into their respective sides. Ray sets off without bothering to ask where. For a long while, nothing is said. All that’s heard is the faint squeaking of leather and far away horns. Harvey holds himself tensely, and Katrina watches like he were a loaded gun. Then he explodes, though you wouldn’t know by the utter calmness of his face. He turns to her with a mildly curious look. “Tell me something about Anderson Global. Have we found anything to back Amelia’s asbestos claim?” 

“Not yet.” She answers easily.

“Have you gone through their employee records?”

“They haven’t been faxed over. They’re taking their time.” Again, she answers without pause. Harvey frowns in mock confusion. “That’s funny. Donna said something about those files sitting in Conference Room B.” 

Katrina looks stricken. She clears her throat and tries for a surprised demeanor. “Oh, I must’ve - ” 

“Enough.” Harvey drops the act. His frown deepens into a scowl. 

“Excuse me?” She puts on this brave, affronted face. Harvey sees right through it, she might as well be made of glass. “Mike has already taken care of it.” He says.

“Why would he - ” 

“Cut the bullshit. You dropped your case on him, your one responsibility.” 

“I didn’t - !” Harvey won’t allow her the chance to spin some half - hearted fabrication. 

“You did, just like you lied about the Carmical briefs. Mike didn’t volunteer. Whatever childish shit you’re trying to pull, it ends here, you’re done.” 

She straightens in her seat, seeming to sprout a backbone. “You have no idea what the story is between me and Mike.” 

“I don’t care what the story is.” He spits. Petty, office rivalries should never interfere with one’s professionalism or work.

“You hired me, and then you hung me out to dry. You don’t give me cases, you don’t give me a word. What am I supposed to do?” She asks. Accusation and desperation color her. Harvey isn’t exactly sympathetic. “We both know how you got here. You expect more from me, that’s not my problem.” 

She gets this confident air about her suddenly. “I do know how I got here, which is how I know you’re not going to fire me. So keep your empty threats to yourself.”

Her tone digs under his skin like a baby splinter. His jaw spasms. “When I said you’re done, I meant your future with this firm is over. Because you will never be anything more than you are right now. And,” He says as an afterthought. “If you ever do anything like that to Mike Ross again, I don’t give a shit what our deal was. You’ll be gone.” He means it, she can see the diehard seriousness in him. Harvey Specter is a force [unlike any other] not to be stoked, because he’ll chew you up and ruin anything you might be. 

Harvey glances out the window. Pearson Hardman stands tall [touching the clouds, or so it always seems to him]. “Get out.” 

She does. He gives Ray a different address, one in the Bronx. Ray knows the place. He knows who lives there, so he doesn’t ask. That ride to the Bronx is one of his most quiet. Mike is on his brain and has been for the longest time. He can hear his own, harsh words [over and over again]. Mike tried to interrupt and explain himself, but Harvey was too good to listen.

Now Mike is hurting, and Harvey is out an associate. Not just an associate, but the best associate he’s ever had [his associate]. He could go on winning cases without Mike, but it wouldn’t be the same. It would be utterly boring and soul - crushing. With Mike, work isn’t just work. Work is fun. Work is finding loopholes, schooling the opposition, back and forth banter, stupid references. Harvey can admit he likes to show off in front of Mike. He likes the awed glances, the camaraderie, the fist bumps. 

Loves it, actually.

Harvey might not need Mike, but he wants Mike [fucking badly]. He doesn’t say it enough [or at all]. He can hardly admit it to himself, but he should. He will, as soon as Mike comes back to work. As much as he loathes to admit it, he cares [a lot]. He cares so much, it’s starting to really hurt. Mike makes him warm, and he isn’t used to all this warmth. It scares him. He used to hide behind pretty, feminine faces and nonchalance. He can’t do that anymore, and a part of him is glad. He has to take action. Mike means more than his pride, so he’ll apologize. He’ll prove he cares. 

They stop, and Harvey is thrown from his heavy introspection. He climbs from his car and gifts the seedy building a mistrustful glare. He pays [paid, he reminds himself bitterly] Mike handsomely, surely he can afford better living accommodations. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he makes the short trek to Mike’s floor. A few, suspicious characters pass him on the way up, and he starts to fear for Mike’s general safety. Suddenly, he’s standing in front of Mike’s door. He tries the knob. It’s locked, because nothing is that easy. 

He knocks. No answer. He leans in close [just short of pressing his ear to the door] and listens. Faint shuffling sounds within, and Harvey huffs. He knocks again, a little harder. Still no answer. “Mike!” He calls, all but banging on the door. It trembles on rusty hinges. “I’m not leaving, Mike!” He calls again, louder. 

“Go away.”

Harvey stops and glares at the door like it might collapse under the sheer weight of his eyes [a plausible notion]. “I’m not going away.” 

Mike doesn’t say anything, so he resumes his violent knocking. 

It swings open under his closed fist. Mike stands on the other side, stiff and scowling. Harvey doesn’t get shocked or visibly surprised [ever], but when he sees Mike [in all his broken glory, cast and crutches and the whole shebang] his heart jumps into his throat. For the first fucking time, when he could really use one, he doesn’t have a clue. “Mike?”


End file.
